


Several Notions season 5+

by hophophop



Series: Several Notions [6]
Category: Elementary (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-31
Updated: 2017-12-31
Packaged: 2019-02-23 20:10:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 4,528
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13197663
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hophophop/pseuds/hophophop
Summary: "I’m about to disabuse you of several notions, so please: listen very carefully.”ficlets, drabbles, and prompt fills originally posted on tumblr or elsewhere over the course of season five, into the limbo of waiting for season six, and beyond.





	1. Brr!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> a little seasonal reality, given the age & condition of the brownstone
> 
> 221b written for Watson's Woes WAdvent, [21 December 2016](https://watsons-woes.dreamwidth.org/1620483.html)

From her warm cocoon under the covers, Joan heard the rattle of dishes just before she felt the slight impact of Sherlock setting the tray down on her bed. Tradition dictated that she grumble loudly at the imposition of being woken up, but really she'd grown quite used to breakfast in bed several times a month. She pushed herself up into the morning light but ducked back immediately, shocked by the cold.

"What— Is that my breath?" A little plume of fog dissipated in front of her, and she pulled the comforter over her head and clasped the edge under her nose. She looked up at Sherlock, who was dressed for a cold day outside, complete with winter coat, scarf, leather gloves, and black knit cap pulled down over his ears. "How cold is it? What did you do to the furnace?"

"I didn't do anything to the furnace." He held up a hand to forestall further accusations. "Nor the electrical system, nor did we fail to pay the utility bill. I've placed a call with a repair company, but they couldn't guarantee same-day service."

Joan groaned.

"And a merry solstice to you, too, Watson." He passed her a thermal coffee mug and turned to leave. "Oh, I almost forgot, I turned off the water so the pipes don't burst."


	2. Brr!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“You’re unharmed?”_  
>  a little something missing from Elementary 5x13
> 
> [posted to tumblr 30 jan 2017](https://amindamazed.tumblr.com/post/156607876288)

Joan didn’t know where her phone was. Collected as evidence, probably. Or maybe it was still on the table where she’d left it after showing Brunelle his death sentence. It didn’t matter, obviously; somebody would get it back to her, or she’d set up a new one. It wasn’t like she’d need to call anyone for a ride tonight. But she couldn’t stop fretting over its absence.

She needed— She didn’t know what she needed. Sleep? She was exhausted. Maybe in shock, she assessed herself, noting how muted and far away the bustle seemed to be. Nothing for her to do in all the press of responders and rescued hostages and relieved families and circling reporters. She’d heard the Captain on the phone when the police spilled into the diner and surrounded Brunelle, telling Marcus it was over, no casualties. So she knew he knew, too. They’d been working together, Sherlock and Marcus. Despite what he’d said to Brunelle, Sherlock hadn’t consulted with her after all. She understood, of course. He followed the case, and he and Marcus had everything they needed or would need with them. She had nothing to contribute. Nothing but keeping another desperate man with a gun from exploding.

Sherlock hadn’t actually spoken to her in any of those update calls, not until the last one, after the deadline. A coping mechanism, maintaining his attention where it was needed. Managing distractions. She knew he cared. Too much, he’d say with irritation, if it interfered with the work. So he pulled back, kept his focus. Got his man.

Still she was a bit surprised he hadn’t called her back.

Oh. Right. She clenched her phone-less fist in her coat pocket, buried under two fleece blankets tucked around her by the EMT who had parked her on the back of the truck. Who had ma’am’d her three times while checking her blood pressure. Should have asked to borrow _her_ phone.

God, she was tired.

Dimly she realized someone was standing next to her again. Not the EMT, who’d been shorter than she was and probably half her age. She’d spent a day with some paramedics once, back in medical school. Observing. She’d been curious even though her ambition was already pointing her in another direction. By the end of the day she was fried, almost falling flat on her face when she stumbled out of the cab, and all she’d done was watch. It had been exhilarating and tedious and horrifying and terrifying by turns. Someone had pulled a gun on them which turned out not to be loaded; they were called to a four-car pile-up on FDR Drive; they got one homeless addict to the ER in time and another who didn’t make it. She saw people being horrible to each other and people trying to help.

She hadn’t gotten very far from that since then, it seemed.

“..oan? Joan.” The voice solidified into the captain. She blinked lifted her head a bit, nowhere close to making eye contact. Her heart stuttered and started pounding. “You okay?”

The police cars’ flashing lights made the night seem darker, and the layers of blankets buffering her from the cold just her made her feel more alone. If there was a reason she wasn’t supposed to answer that question, she was too tired to remember what it was. He wasn’t here, and she didn’t have her phone. Tommy wouldn’t tell.

“Not really,” she confessed, tipping a bit when the captain’s arm came around to pull her back together.

“You did good in there,” he insisted, like he wanted her to believe it. She closed her eyes and thought maybe she’d give it a try.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> NairobiWonders asked: "I’m disillusioned and exhausted. I need a distraction…. Would someone write me a story where Joan is caught with her hand down the back of Sherlock’s pants (for a totally innocent reason of course)?"
> 
> [posted to tumblr 8 February 2017](https://amindamazed.tumblr.com/post/156976647013)

“That’s her — Are you getting it? She’s leaving!” Watson hissed, entirely unnecessarily (not to mention entirely ineffectively, if they were in danger of being overheard by the suspect through the car’s closed windows a block and a half away from where she stood checking her phone and waiting for her accomplice. Watson was normally more conscious of such details, but she’d been awake for coming on thirty hours and her last caffeine hit had increased only her agitation, not her mental acuity.)

“Yes,” he replied calmly, hoping she’d settle a bit and not jostle his arm. He’d had to maximize his phone’s camera zoom and the slightest movement would make the video too blurry to be useful. They needed this evidence so that Marcus could get the warrant to search the offices before the suspect moved again. A warning notification popped up on the screen; battery down to 5%. Dammit. They couldn’t risk starting the car. He glanced over to the suddenly quiet Watson, who’d succumbed to a brief doze again. Frequency of nodding off was increasing. If he woke her too abruptly, she was likely to bump his shoulder again. He tried to reach back with his other arm, but he couldn’t get to the pocket in his jacket bunched up behind him where the charging cable and spare battery were stashed.

“Watson,” he whispered, and she hummed in response but didn’t open her eyes. “I need the extra battery, Watson. Carefully, now, Watson.” By the third “Watson” she seemed more or less aware he was speaking to her. “Can you reach behind me? I’ve got her in sight but I’ll lose her if I have to move.” And there Watson was, pulled into the work as always, blinking the dazed exhaustion out of the way. “It’s in my jacket pocket,” and he jerked his head backwards slightly to direct her there. “Just try not to—”

“—Yeah, okay,” she said, and gently eased her hand behind him, trying to grasp the garment without bumping him. Her hand groped around, dexterity somewhat hampered by the angle and the deterioration of her fine motor skills from too much caffeine and not enough sleep. He almost lost the suspect in the camera at the unexpected touch of her hand against his lower back. Her fingers were freezing, too, and perhaps reduced sensitivity explained why she continued to feel around inside his pants without any apparent awareness of what she was doing there.

“Uh,” he started, and then cleared his throat to shift his voice back to its usual register. “I think the jacket’s a little higher up than that, Watson,” but her hand slid down a little further and slowed to a stop. Should have worn a belt today. Another glance over found her sleeping again, lurched sideways toward him and her head tilting on the verge of coming to rest against his arm. His phone’s screen went black, and he dropped his own head in resignation with a frustrated sigh. Hopefully the bit of video he had would be enough. Watson’s fingers gave a little twitch against his backside, jerking him upright again. Right. He slid his hand back to try to remove hers and startled in surprise when Marcus got in the back behind Watson.

“We got her,” he started, and then paused, cocking an eyebrow at Sherlock, whose hand was frozen in place, holding Watson’s wrist at his waist, her hand tucked inside the back of his pants. She was still asleep, out cold so to speak, although her fingers were much warmer now than they’d been at first. Sherlock cleared his throat again and gently lifted Watson’s hand out and over to place it on her leg. It slipped off and she started to sag further, so he shifted to slide her shoulders back toward the center line of her seat. She mumbled and frowned but didn’t wake. Marcus just observed without saying anything, so Sherlock shifted away from her back into his own seat, leaned forward to fish his jacket out from behind him, and extricated the battery. He attached it to his phone with a bit of a flourish for Marcus. His phone gave a sullen buzz in recognition.

Watson’s head nodded hard down and up. “What?” she said loudly, catching Marcus in the rear view mirror and turning around, confused. “When did you get here? What happened?”

“Looks like you’ve got everything in hand,” Marcus said.


	4. Someone Important

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> a bit of musing on what went through Sherlock's head when Margaret and Archie arrived at the brownstone in 5x15.
> 
> [posted to tumblr 10 march 2017](https://amindamazed.tumblr.com/post/158256349178)

The stocky middle-aged woman (former rugby player, military training, central Europe) looked at him expectantly over the bundle in her arms, and he considered the fact that this was the first time an infant had crossed his threshold. He’s never known anyone who had a baby. Well that’s not remotely the truth. The captain, for one, is a parent three times over, as are any number of irregulars, contacts, and associates. Agatha had in fact emailed a birth announcement just a few months prior, and his innards had clenched uncomfortably for a moment when he recalled their last conversation. And then there was Moriarty. He’d half expected her to wax philosophical in her letters about her biological creation, once Kayden’s existence and relationship had been made known to him. Perhaps she still would one day, if she ever felt it would be a useful goad.

No, what he meant was that no one of his personal acquaintance had ever had custody of an infant in his presence. He’d been near them any number of times, obviously. But not one he could conceivably be expected to know. And now here, in his foyer, was Kitty introducing him to, of all things possibly the last he would have ever imagined from her, her son. And then the phone rang, his damnable phone, but they were approaching the climax of the case, which as it stood remained a source of potential danger for them both. And while he knew as he took that first step back it was an act of cowardice to retreat, he could not — not now — postpone an action, any action, that might remove the risk outright. The justification was right here, swaddled and becrowned and staring at him solemnly as he stared back, a gaping fool. What had she done? Look at what she had done.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> following a prompt from quipxotic from 50 A Softer World Prompts:
> 
> 4\. i don’t know what the fuck true love even is but i do want to hang out with you for basically the rest of my life. (let’s hang out - TO THE DEATH)
> 
> [posted to tumblr 11 march 2017](https://amindamazed.tumblr.com/post/158274930643)

Most of the time they were with anyone else, there were two of her: Watson and Joan. Maybe everyone felt this way when different parts of their lives converged; Marcus wasn’t Detective Bell with her any more, though the detective was never very far away. And he always called her Joan now (but there had been a long while after Ms Watson faded away when he seemed to avoid her name entirely, as if he couldn’t figure out what it was).

Despite his mercurial nature, Sherlock somehow seemed always to be Sherlock no matter who else accompanied them. Whether he was irritable or polite or aggressive or empathetic, with a client or victim or associate or source, she saw him, as if the strategic facade he displayed were a two-way mirror made transparent just for her. And with him, she was always Watson. It had taken much longer for him and Marcus to move beyond Holmes and Detective; she wasn’t sure either of them had entirely left that behind.

(Kitty was the exception here, the only other person who knew her as Watson, and Watson alone. Not surprising given that they were introduced through the filter of Sherlock. Moriarty was unique for not choosing; she made clear that Joan Watson existed only in relation to her next target. She was Watson when that woman was primarily focused on manipulating Sherlock, and she was Joan when she wanted to call attention to how little she mattered in the wider scheme of things. And then Morland had wavered at times between the disinterested and dismissively polite ‘Miss Watson’ and an intimidating step into her personal space with a stentorian 'Joan’, both of which raised her hackles every time.)

So when the three of them gathered around the conference table at the station or piled into Marcus’s car or stood awkwardly in the Brownstone library because none of them wanted to part or admit that desire to the others, she counted at least four: Joan and Marcus and Sherlock and Watson, and sometimes Detective and Holmes stepped in from their shadowy corners to make things just a little more difficult.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> following a prompt from girlfan from 50 A Softer World Prompts:
> 
> 37\. on the paper, she had written “you” and she told me “that’s a list of the people who are standing too close.” (I ain’t your pal.)
> 
> [posted to tumblr 11 march 2017](https://amindamazed.tumblr.com/post/158277932153)

Even as Moriarty accused Joan of getting too close, she held up the handle-end of her paintbrush between them and took another step forward so that the point pushed painfully into Joan’s breastbone. Moriarty looked over Joan’s head and jerked a nod at someone behind her, who grabbed Joan’s arms before she could push away, only to let go with a painful squeeze, leaving Joan in the same spot once more. It didn’t make sense, toying with her the same way over and over; even Moriarty must get bored with this pointless game, and finally realization dawned. _This is a dream, you don’t have to figure this out. She’s not actually here. This isn’t happening._ Joan woke up scowling, her forehead tight and her teeth clenched. Her arms ached with rotator cuff strain. Third night in a row Moriarty had stalked her sleep, and at this point Joan was ready to consider that reason enough to get her back in prison. She took a deep breath and released it forcefully.

“That works better if you actually relax the muscles in your face first.” The room was dark, but she could picture Sherlock draped over the awful vinyl couch installed where the second bed would normally be, if the motel hadn’t “upgraded” its rooms to “business suites.” Joan squeezed her eyes against unwanted tears and rolled over to face the ceiling. She adjusted her shoulder blades down and flat under her back, and stretched both arms out to opposite edges of mattress, wincing as her biceps protested. From this angle even Sherlock’s night vision wasn’t good enough to be able to see her open her mouth wide in a lion pose stretch, but he would certainly hear the pops and clicks as she shifted her tight jaw from side to side.

That is, if he were actually here.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> something from my once and future Reichenbach variation


	7. Chimney Sweep

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“Husband, father, devoted chimney sweep.”_
> 
> here’s a draft I’m not going to finish that’s an alternate universe where Sherlock did email Kitty about 6 months after she left, inspired by my irritation with the scene in 5x16 when he puts all the blame on her for not getting in touch. That whole argument was bullshit: he was her mentor, not to mention older, more experienced, with financial security, a roof over his head, and a solid support system. Anyway, here’s another way those 2 years could have played out. 
> 
> [posted to tumblr 18 april 2017](https://amindamazed.tumblr.com/post/159737199403)

Joan asked Sherlock multiple times for news in the months after Kitty left; eventually she said that if he didn’t check in, she would. He tried the excuse that he didn’t have means to contact her — Kitty told him she was getting rid of her phone — and Joan just stared him down, not even bothering to roll her eyes.

The next six months brought a cascade of personal failures culminating with the unbearable morass that was Morland Holmes seeping and settling into the cracks and crevices of his life. He hid behind them all until he couldn’t stand it any more and managed to finally overcome his infuriating reluctance, the long, drawn out hesitation and avoidance he couldn’t make neither heads nor tails. It came all at once in a rush, send the email now, and he did, and immediately felt lighter. It was a relief, and it was absurd, and then the niggling anxiety seeped in, that it was too little too late, that Kitty would feel compromised, that he put her at risk. He snapped at Watson for the entire drive to Quebec.

As it happened, Kitty got the email the day she learned she was pregnant. She could barely deal with herself and what she had to decide, and there was no way she could handle Sherlock’s stilted attempt to be nonchalant with the anecdote about the acquaintance who actually imagined he’d acquiesce to her reproductive machinations, what could be more ridiculous? She replied “I’m fine,” which he took as a rebuke to back off and as vindication that he was right all along. But he spared Watson his “I told you so” and kept it to himself, because Kitty’s rebuttal, such as it was, confused him even as he expected it from the start. He didn’t know how to behave with someone who said “I love you” and meant it in such a non-manipulative way. He couldn’t say it back. He didn’t understand his feelings at the time and no better now: part pride, part worry - it reminded him a bit of what he said about Lestrade back in London, which Watson said was what it was like caring for an addict. Now he wondered if her somewhat flippant tone back then had covered up other feelings he was too self-obsessed to observe at the time.

Joan accepted Kitty’s “fine” when he passed it along, and took the opportunity to send her own greeting. Kitty by this point had decided she wanted the baby. She was almost able to accept being herself again, being happy. And she couldn’t bring that up with the people who last saw her at such a low, fraught point. Didn’t want to. Partly because she was afraid they’d think she was irresponsible and flighty; Sherlock obviously wouldn’t approve. Partly because she knew neither of them were happy or really wanted to be, not the way she did now, and she just couldn’t figure out how to express any of it. She didn’t want to expose her baby to the harsh truths of her life. She remembered what she told the runaway, that her mum had chosen her, wanted to move forward with the good she had and not live in the painful past. Sherlock and Watson were now, suddenly and unexpectedly, her past. She had to take care of herself, and her child. _Child—!_ So she let them go, and didn’t reply to Watson, and accepted the sharp sliver of guilt as fair payment for her choice.

Sherlock emailed once again after six more months had passed, asking if she might be able to follow up on something for him related to one of Morland’s businesses in London. Archie was five weeks old, and Kitty forgot the email through lack of sleep, finding it again three months later and was too embarrassed to reply given how long it’d been and how much she had to say. She had often thought of writing to him, to them, not just now but the whole time, but never did.

Sherlock noted that they had reached out three times, while Kitty hadn’t initiated conversation at all. He knew he could investigate further; he could learn everything she’d been up to. Watson mentioned her in conversation at least once a month. He was tempted. But Kitty had said “I love you,” and he thought it was a thank you for helping her find her way out of the dark place she’d been when they met. He worried still she might have gotten stuck there again but believed he — they — taught her good means to help herself out. His worry wasn’t stronger than his faith. He didn’t know what happened, but he observed and then he deduced, and he didn’t reach out again.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> following a prompt from beanarie from 50 A Softer World Prompts:
> 
> 23\. the exact opposite of alone  
> we talk in the dark as we fall asleep, and we are objects in the night sky outside of time.
> 
> set during my not forgotten I swear reichenbach variation.
> 
> [posted on tumblr 19 april 2017](https://amindamazed.tumblr.com/post/159770457828)

Joan woke from her dream scolding Sherlock, “You can’t keep using my room as a staging area for experiments just because you didn’t clean up after the last—“

Another wind gust rattled a garbage can outside and moaned through the alley behind the brownstone. It had been a blustery fall with heavy rain and lots of localized flooding around the city. She used to be able to sleep through it, sleep through anything, but these past few weeks she woke at the drop of a pin, it seemed. Some part of her was still listening, still waiting for his step. It was like he was still there, but more so, because he wasn’t.

Back when he wouldn’t keep out of her room she thought about turning the tables on him but knew it would just backfire. He’d either ignore her or pull her into whatever he was working on as if it was perfectly normal for her to be up all hours in a torn t-shirt and her baggy red sweater discussing stab wounds or financial discrepancies. Because of course it was.

Now, though… it probably was morbid and pathetic and not an indication of moving on from grief but it had only been a month since the explosion and it wasn’t like anyone would find her there. And she wasn’t exactly grieving, even if she’d been acting as if long enough that she sometimes forgot what was real in those liminal spaces between waking and sleep. She shimmied against her mattress to lie flat on her back and stared up at the ceiling, hidden in the dark gloom. If she were lying on his couch downstairs, the ceiling would be quite a bit closer. Four feet, at least. Probably still too dark to trace the cracks in the plaster. And it probably wasn’t much quieter down there, though maybe the sound of the rain on the cement would mask the other sounds. The ones that weren’t there, most of all.


	9. things you said at 1 am

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> @nairobiwonders asked for some light and warm fic as balm for having to go to work tonight. I found this among my various drafts - a while back I saw [this version](http://eversncenewyork.tumblr.com/post/110395333021/send-me-a-ship-and-one-of-these-and-ill-write-a) of the “things you said” prompts with just 23 in the list, and once upon a time I had a thought of using them for pieces that fall between each season 1 episode. and then never got past the first one.
> 
> I actually find this light and warm albeit in a somewhat sarcastic way, and certainly with the benefit of knowing how the partnership will grow, but I will concede that it might not actually read as warm to others…
> 
> [takes place between 101 & 102]
> 
>  
> 
> [posted to tumblr 29 december 2017](https://amindamazed.tumblr.com/post/169090076853)

Watson staggers down the stairs, groggy enough to trip over her own feet, and Holmes scowls at himself for allowing the interruption of his focus. It’s not his fault her sleep schedule is so rigid. He’s already lost six months to his father’s interference, and he will not postpone this experiment to accommodate anyone’s preferences but his own. He adjusts his goggles and restarts the drill. She comes as far as the edge of the lock room carpet and then stands there, watching. Her patience goads him into continuing 7 seconds longer than he’d calculated, and it’s only the wisp of smoke from the drill bit that brings this to his attention. His ears ring in the sudden silence.

“There’s no such thing as a regular schedule with you, is there.” Watson states it as fact, not inquiry. A conclusion drawn from five days in his presence. He’s tempted not to respond, as a lesson in the importance of precision, but desire for accuracy wins.

He sets down the drill and picks over the set of bits, waiting for the ruined one to cool. “Most investigations follow a common structure, a cyclical process of observation, hypothesis, testing, and revision. Quite regular.”

She tilts her head slightly, an analytical gleam in her eye he’d rather see directed elsewhere. “Did you have trouble sleeping as a child?”

That he will not reward, and turns back to his work only to hiss upon touching the overheated drill bit, shaking his hand to soothe the burn.

“You okay?” She steps forward, forehead furrowed in concern and one hand outstretched, their sparring abandoned. He’s not sure which frustrates him more, his distraction or her fussing, and he waves her off. She steps back immediately and then crosses over to the study and returns with the glass of water he’d left by his scanners two days ago. She holds it out to him with a bit of defiance, clearly expecting another brush off. He’s not that petty, thank you very much, and takes it without a word, dipping his second finger to cool off in the water.

She shakes her head and leaves him for the kitchen, leaves him uncertain what just happened, leaves him surprised by her yet again. He doesn’t want to like it. Her presence. She’s an agent of his father, and her sincerity grates. It’s incongruous. It’s a distraction. He needs more information, and soon he will get it.


	10. Dissonance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> episode tag for 5x24, not previously posted on tumblr

The ringing in his ears from the clatter of the MRI made him feel numb. More numb. Another layer of numbness between him and everyone else. He’d been withdrawing for weeks, truth be told, although it was only in the past few days when his inner monologue shifted to its new dialogic format that he acknowledged this was not simply a matter of managing his conflict with Watson regarding her continued and baffling (and he will now admit hurtful) loyalty to Shinwell.

Afterwards, the changing room floor was cold and his feet hurt, or would hurt, if the numbness hadn’t separated them from the worst of it. A full-body shiver hovered just out of reach. He felt as if he were congealing, solidifying, gradually phase-shifting from living flesh to hard plastic, like PVC pipe, brittle and hollow inside. Rap on the shell with a hammer or magnetic waves, and inside the sound filled the empty space with itself. A recursive loop in which all he could remember was that there are things he can’t remember, and he has striven for six years to forget the last time that happened.

He didn’t stumble, but the motions of dressing seemed to be operating under remote control. Even his clothing was stiff in his hands and in response to inserted limbs. Nothing felt right. It was his but no longer the correct size, as if the radiation’s effects on his body had already begun to manifest. He had watched that film with Alfredo. Or had he? He’s both too big and too small, awkward in all directions. He was not himself, a statement suddenly more accurate than he ever could have imagined. He knew with sudden clarity that language was next. He was already uncertain that what he said meant what he thought it meant. 

The buried buzz against his left pectoral didn’t register at first; more residual feedback from the machine and the disconnect between awareness and the body that fit as uncomfortably as his suit. Prioperception: irony of ironies that he hadn’t lost that word yet. He pulled at the jacket lapels to try to straighten the seams into settling and felft first the hard rectangle and then its insistent vibration from the inside pocket: that wasn’t him. There was a flare of relief that he could distinguish the difference (and that she hadn’t given up on him), but cold doubt followed. He pressed his palm flat against his chest and waited.


	11. Dissonance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> episode tag for 5x24, not previously posted on tumblr

[some how I managed to post the same piece twice, as chapters 10 & 11\. since there was a comment left on each one, I didn't want to delete either. but in truth there is no ch 11.]


End file.
